


the things we think and do not say

by throughadoor



Category: Friday Night Lights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-25
Updated: 2010-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-14 02:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/throughadoor/pseuds/throughadoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I need an agent."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the things we think and do not say

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sherrold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherrold/gifts).



> This author hasn't started watching season five, so this story contains no season five spoilers but also no knowledge of them, either.

Anna stands in the door of Jason's office, one hand on her hip, telephone headset still curved around her ear. "I've got the Under Armor rep on hold," she says. "You also have the players' union conference call, and you told me this morning to remind you when it was a half an hour until you needed to leave if you want to make your son's soccer game."

"Seriously, already?"

"Seriously."

Jason shakes his head. "The Under Armor guy, tell him we're not talking to him until he comes back with a TV spot. I could get my grandmother an Under Armor print campaign, we want regional television _at least_ or we're going back to Reebok."

Anna rolls her eyes. "Your grandmother?" she says.

He grins up at her. "You better believe it," he says. "My grandma's got guns. Can I take this players' union conference call in the car?"

"Already forwarding it to your cell."

"Now, see, that is why they pay you the big bucks."

"I don't recall getting paid these big bucks you speak of," Anna says, tilting her head, making a show of scratching her temple. "Maybe I should hire myself an agent."

Jason snorts. "Don't trust agents," he says, "they just want to rob you for ten percent off the top." He goes to push himself away from the desk and tries not to wince when pain shoots up his arm.

Anna glares at him. "Were you using the voice rec?" she says.

"I was using it, yes." Eight years of physical therapy and Jason knows that what's happening right now is the few damaged peripheral nerves still on speaking terms with his spinal cord are currently firing misinformation.

"You were using it this morning, you mean?"

What it feels like, though, is lightening bolts shooting up his fingertips. And the voice recognition software on his laptop is straight out of a science fiction movie, but it can only do so much. "I did use the voice rec this morning," Jason says, "but you know I can't use it when I'm revising contracts."

Anna's glare only narrows. "You have to use the voice recognition software so you don't overdo it on your hand."

Jason clenches and unclenches his fingers, but under his desk so Anna can't see he's so tired he can't make a complete fist. "Yeah, believe me," Jason says. "I know. Is that it?"

"Under Armor contract for your grandmother, players' union call to your cell," Anna says, tapping these items off on her fingers. "Yup, I think that's it." She pauses. "Oh, there's this other -- there's some kid who's been waiting for you. I told him you were booked up for the afternoon, but he said he wanted to wait."

Jason frowns. "Who is it?"

"I don't know, he says his name is Matt Saracen, do you want me to tell him to get lost?"

"Uh, no, that's -- uh, go ahead and send him in."

"Who's the kid?"

Jason glances at his desk. There are three framed pictures: one of him at the 2012 NFL Draft, grinning and holding one half of a #1 Seahawks jersey, one of Erin and Noah smiling and sunburned at the beach last summer, and a Dillon Panthers team photo from 2006. Jason himself was standing in the front row, Matt was an obscured half-face in the back. "Just someone I used to know," Jason says.

The last Jason heard about Matt Saracen was that he'd moved to San Francisco. The kid who walks into his office is Matt straight out of high school, hooded sweatshirt and hunched shoulders. Then he pushes the hood back from his head and--

"You are not Matt Saracen."

"No," the kid says, looking guilty. "I needed to see you, but I didn't want to say who I was because of, you know, everything, so I figured, um, Matt Saracen." That does make sense. On both counts, even.

"Well, JD McCoy," Jason says, "I'm gonna be late for my kid's soccer game and my wife hates that, so what can I do for you?"

"I need an agent."

"I thought you had an agent. I heard you were with CAA."

"Yeah, but then--"

"--you got caught in a hotel room the night before the Alamo Bowl with one of your running backs."

It was all over Sports Center a week ago, and a couple of the other guys at the office said, "That McCoy kid, didn't you play on the same team?" and Jason said, "Different year, different coach," and then someone made a smart-ass joke about JD McCoy and playing for the same team and then Jason kind of forgot about it because McCoy wasn't even their client and Noah had the flu.

"Yeah," JD says now. He still hasn't sat down, and his hands are stuffed in his pockets.

Jason studies him for a minute. "Even before the incident, you were projecting late fourth round at best," he says. "Texas Tech runs a fast break offense, right?"

JD's eyes light up with defiance. "I can do it," he says. "I'm good enough."

Jason frowns. "That offense was good for your numbers, but scouts'll say they don't know if you can make it in the pros. What are you gonna do once you're out of that system and you're not playing with five wide receivers?"

"I've got a short yardage game."

"Yeah, but nobody saw it at Texas Tech."

JD shrugs. "So, I'll show them," he says. "But I need someone who can get teams to pay attention to me at the combine, not, you know, what happened."

"So, you're gay, right?"

"I -- uh."

JD is eying Jason, and Jason wants to say, look, kid, I would not be making it in New York City if I had a small town Texas problem with queers. Instead, he says, "Look, kid, trying to lie has already gotten you in enough mess, don't you think?"

"You don't know what it's like."

"Oh, really? I don't know what it's like in Dillon, Texas? I don't know what it's like to be QB1? If I don't know what it's like, why'd you come to see me, huh?"

"Back in Dillon -- they had no idea," JD says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I used to fuck cheerleaders." He tries for a leering grin, but it goes lopsided.

"I used to fuck cheerleaders, too," Jason says, putting dripping emphasis on the word 'fuck.' He nods at his own lap and says, "Before _and_ after," so he can watch JD's eyebrows climb up to his hairline. "What," Jason says with a barking laugh, "you don't believe me?"

JD gulps.

Jason thinks about being different in Dillon, and how it was enough to get him the hell out of the place he'd thought he loved the most in the world. He can't imagine this kid JD had it a whole lot easier, even if his difference was on the inside.

Jason sighs. "You need someone to work you out before the combine."

JD nods. "Okay."

"You going back to Lubbock?"

"No, I think--"

"Withdraw from classes if you think they're going to kick you out. If they do try to kick you out, it's bullshit, but it's bullshit you're not gonna have time for."

JD looks down for a second, but then says, "Okay," again.

"Why'd you come to me, anyway?" Jason says.

"Saw your name in the trophy case."

Jason grimaces. The boosters have been making noise about some kind of Jason Street Memorial Courage award for years, and eventually Jason is going to tell them no thanks, no way, not over my crippled body. "Not on the big one, though, huh?" Jason says.

"Yeah, well," JD says. "Me neither."

They're both quiet for a second, and Jason wonders what they would both still give up for a Texas state football championship ring. And then Anna ducks her head into the office. "So sorry to interrupt," she says, polite like she never even pretends at when it's just her and Jason. "If you want that conference call routed to your cell in the car, you need to get going."

"Thanks, Anna," Jason says. "We're just wrapping up here." If Anna recognizes the true identity of 'Matt Saracen,' she doesn't say anything. She might not even know who he is. Anna said in her interview that she hated football, which is half the reason Jason hired her to be his assistant.

"How'd you even get here?" Jason says to JD, remembering when he first got to New York, careening through the streets of Manhattan with Riggins. He doesn't know if JD has a Riggins to get him through this.

"I'm staying with my mom. She lives in New Haven, I just took the train."

"Your mom lives in New Haven?"

"My dad's still in Dillon, my parents are split up."

"I want you to go stay with your dad for a while."

JD's eyes widen. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"You need someone to work you out before the combine, and I think the best person to work with you is Eric Taylor."

JD's eyes are like saucers now. "I _really_ don't think that's a good idea," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"My dad and I -- we haven't talked since the thing happened. And before that, when I was in high school? My dad, he, like, got Coach Taylor fired."

"Oh, believe me, I know," Jason says. "And I'm gonna have to call in every favor I have with Coach Taylor to get him to even look at your sorry ass."

"Why are you," JD says, biting his lip, "why are you gonna do that for me?"

Jason grins, that big flashbulb grin that signs contracts and seals deals, the one he's had since he was QB1 for the Dillon Panthers. "Because, kid," he says, "I'm your agent."

**Author's Note:**

> Title is the same as the title of the ~~memo~~ mission statement in _Jerry Maguire_. Sherrold asked for a meeting between one of the first season characters and the new kids, and this was the simultaneously the most ridiculous and obvious thing that came to mind.


End file.
